


There Are Some Advantages to Magic and Cheating

by arcaladiwoompa



Series: Magic and Cheating [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Captorcest - Freeform, Drone Season, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hermaphroditic Trolls, I didn't even know I was into this pairing until I started writing it, Loud Sex, M/M, Massage, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Trolls in Heat, Xenobiology, also there's a biowire, ancestorcest, sex with psionics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaladiwoompa/pseuds/arcaladiwoompa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fucking drone season.  Every sweep around this time you stop being treated like a machine for a change and for a few degrading, pheromone-fueled nights, you are treated like an animal instead.  Who will you get locked into a concupiscent block with naked this time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FailureArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailureArtist/gifts).



> SJHDGHJGDJK ROACHPATROL POSTED A FIC REC TO THIS ON HER TUMBLR AND I GOT KUDOS FROM ASUKA I AM A HUGE FAN OF BOTH OF YOU I JUST ABOUT DIED! *fansplodes*
> 
> I'm blushing so hard right now.
> 
> \-------
> 
> I FINALLY finished writing for [this prompt by Failure Artist](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39716.html?thread=46287652) after getting thoroughly distracted by an OC and a biowire and going off prompt. (Really everything is off prompt except for Chapter 2. Go figure.) I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> The basic premise is that not only do trolls not consider Ancestor/Descendant sex to be incest, they actively enforce it to produce genetically favorable grubs. (Failure Artist thought it would work best with Makaras or Captors.)
> 
> Warning for possible dubcon. They consent but Sollux and the Psiioniic don't exactly have a choice in being stuck with each other.

Fucking drone season. Every sweep around this time you stop being treated like a machine for a change and for a few degrading, pheromone-fueled nights, you are treated like an animal instead. Who will you get locked into a concupiscent block with naked this time? It’s always the most powerful helmstroll the crew can find within convenient jump distance of the Battleship Condescension, and usually someone you’ve never met before in your life. It doesn’t matter if you fake it red or black, or purple with yellow spots all over as long as you churn out gross slurry that will make more batteries for the Alternian Empire. You are a sick fuck, because you can’t decide if you hate it, enjoy it, or hate yourself for enjoying it.

You can’t stand how the Empress- may she choke on a sack of bulges- charges you up with Life energy just for this. You’re way past your expiry date. Why won’t she leave you alone and let you die already? And yet you can’t deny how _good_ it feels every damn time as your muscles fill up with renewed vigor, your blood pusher beats stronger and your tough black skin shines as brightly as the first day after your adult molt.

As soon as she is finished, your stupid demanding body distracts you so badly you have to hand all the ship’s controls over to the autopilot function while you fidget in your biowires. “Hurry up and get me down from here before my globes explode!”

She ignores you in favor of passing an order along to your mechanic on her way out of the helmsblock. “Engineeradicator Shieldhorn, sea to it that you run diagnostics on the Pilot’s vital signs and slurry production levels.”

“Yes, Your Imperious Condescension.”

“Or that. Thank fuck for the deviant who designed the slurry diagnostics subroutine. If I could access that shit from the helm controls we’d be on autopilot every day.”

“Shut your filthy mouth, Helmsman.”

“Go pail a beenary server Nashok. My mouth is the only goddamned body part I can _move_.”

Orayon Nashok, more formally known by his title Engineeradicator Shieldhorn, is a blueblood who works with his hands, not a seadweller admiral, and that makes him the lowest ranking asshole on the Battleship Condescension. He can’t seem to decide if you’re a stubborn piece of machinery or the only “crew” he thinks he can boss around. 

Right now you’re at eye level with two out of three points of his aggravatingly asymmetrical horns – right bent at an obtuse angle, left shorter in the shape of a downward crescent balanced on a spike- and all you can see of his short, loose curls is the top of his head, but you’ve seen plenty of him through your cameras. Even in a grainy video feed he’s _hot_. Nashok is a mountain of rippling muscle in a skin tight flight suit that leaves little to the imagination. The tool belt around his hips is so ridiculously tiny in proportion to his body that it looks like a useless fashion accessory on a runway model.

Oh, and did you mention that he’s such a hemoelitist brinesucker that you can’t see eye to eye on _anything_? “It seems to me that you are _ungrateful_ for your Gift of Life from the Empress.”

His preposterous idea that you should not only obediently tolerate but feel _honored_ to serve an infinite prison sentence as Her Imperious Condescension’s special snowflake of a Helmsman makes you flip your shit every time. “Are seriously _jealous_ of me, you ignorant ass-licking semi-moron?” You snarl and the sparks from your horns are shunted straight into the ship’s batteries. “You think I _enjoy_ having my body restored so it can keep getting fucked up again for the rest of eternity like Earth Human Prometheus?”

“You are not, nor have you ever been chained to a rock in the sun with an eagle pecking out your liver on a daily basis. Furthermore, your precious mutant blooded humans are still such technological laggards that they have yet to develop spacecraft advanced enough to deliver a living specimen to the outer reaches of their solar system, to say nothing about a high quality psionic warp engine. I fail to see the relevance of this primitive fictional alien creature to your situation.”

Nashok not only _gets_ your obscure alien cultural reference, he completely butchers it by taking it too literally. Heat floods into your nook and he hasn’t even activated the damned diagnostics program yet. Who the fuck else reads the fascinating footnotes of your extensive travels in their spare time instead of being forced on pain of culling to skim through your recent entries to assess how easily a newly discovered alien race can be subjuggulated on their home planet? Holy fuck, you have the stupidest pitch crush on him. Any waking cycle now you’re going to figure out how to enrage your way into his pants.

Without bothering to look up at you Nashok finishes queuing the command sequence for the diagnostics program and finally fires it up. “You still owe me dinner from last sweep and the sweep before,” you snark as a blunted medium sized biowire pulls open the bottom zipper of your flight suit and slides into the base of your nook.

“You will be supplied with rations when you are transferred to your concupiscent quarters,” Nashok comments dryly. You catch a subtle flare of his nostrils as the first wave of your pitch pheromones wafts over him. “And now, regardless of whether or not you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

Other matters, pfft. His schedule is wide open until lunch time. “Like picturing bending me over the helmsblock terminal while you go fill a bucket with your awkward temporary kismesis?”

“I have no need for that image, Helmsman. I know exactly what the diagnostics program is about to do to you.”

That was the most shockingly direct pitch solicitation you’ve ever heard from Nashok, and he has the gall to turn his back on you and stride smoothly out of the room anyway. You are so mad you can’t even think of a comeback to shout at his retreating figure as the doors slide closed.

You track his progress through the hallway with your cameras until the biowire curls its way higher, rubbing at your tightly coiled sheathed bulges through the front wall of your nook. Oooh yeah, he knows what you like. As you roll your hips into the rhythm, it takes hardly any time at all before your bulges unfurl from behind your bone shield one after the other.

At this point the biowire slips out of your nook to coil around your left bulge, expanding to suck on the tip with what you’re pretty sure is the same peristaltic muscle function it uses to siphon out your inner slurry cavity once your globes start to release. It feels more frustrating than satisfying, especially since it misses your right bulge entirely. You hiss. You are 50% sure Nashok programmed it to mess with you on purpose and 50% sure Nashok has no idea what he’s missing. It’s not like he’d be able to see much anyway behind the helmscolumn wires covering your whole body from the waist down.

If only Nashok wasn’t so damn serious about his job, he wouldn’t need to take a fake kismesis for drone season instead of you. Technically he’s supposed to make sure all your slurry that isn’t about to be analyzed by the diagnostics program goes to the drones with whichever mate they assign to you for the season. The least he could do is stay in the helmsblock, reach through the nest of wires and explore your bulges with his hands for once. 

You chirr in approval as the biowire realizes it was better off in your nook after all. The tip prods at the lips of your nook, where its ongoing sucking and nibbling sends a pleasant coiling heat into your lower abdomen. You squirm a little, savoring the sensation. That’s more _like_ it. The biowire slowly coils its way deeper inside, slurping its way up your inner walls.

As soon as the tip finds your seedflap you get much louder. The biowire brushes so delicately against the underside it makes you want to howl with rage. It isn’t _enough_ and he programmed it that way on purpose, that son of a bitch. Suddenly it swirls hard against the ring of muscle that normally holds your seedflap closed only to slip all the way back out of you again. SHIT! You thrash and snarl in your fleshy prison. You were so close you could feel your globes tensing up, and now you’re trapped on the edge with your nook clenching over and over again on nothing.

Then all at once the biowire surges all the way up to your inner cavity and sends a dose of your own crackling psionics right into your globes. You arch your back and screech. Bright purple burns away your entire field of vision.

The ship enthusiastically guzzles down your optic blast while the biowire enthusiastically does the same to your genetic material. Every gulp you feel sliding down the entire length of your nook in little expanding and contracting lumps sends a miniature aftershock of pleasure back to your globes. Resting your head against your arms and letting your eyes fall closed, you try to catch your breath as your release levels off at a slower pace.

Evidently the biowire is not satisfied with this turn of events, greedily shocking your globes into a second intense surge before you’re ready. This time your heartfelt wail takes on a note of anguish. Mercifully the biowire decides to slow down. When it finishes siphoning away your second batch of slurry, the tip alternates between sucking at your seedflap and slurping at your globes. It feels like some kind of really weird kiss, but that sure doesn’t stop you from getting off on it. You arch tiredly as it works the last few waves of slurry out of you. Sensing that your globes are completely empty, the biowire slithers back into hiding.

You are still panting when Nashok returns to the helmsblock to read the diagnostics output, looking smug and reeking of pheromones. “Will you stop making it tease me every damned season for once?”

“Only when it stops producing highly favorable diagnostics results.”

“Bite me.”


	2. Chapter 2

You have to land on some shitty moonbase to rendezvous with some fancy ass battleship you’ve never heard of before. Big surprise, big yawn. You’re too horny to concentrate on flying again so you leave all the details to the autopilot and the bridge, impatiently waiting for Nashok to come and disconnect you.

You hate how sore, stiff and disoriented you feel when he finally removes your biowires and helmet and snaps antipsionic collars around all four of your horns, but it’s totally worth it for the glorious chance to stand on two legs and _stretch_ after being forced to stay still for so damned long. It’s always the very first thing you do, and you like how the obscene buzzing groans of relief that escape from your thorax make him subconsciously echo your pheromones as he peels you out of your sticky flight suit. “Be a dear and wash that for me, would you Nashok?”

With an affronted grunt he discards you into an empty concupiscent block like a smelly sock into a laundry hamper. Normally you would love to snipe him into an argument again but now you really don’t care because right around the corner you finally have access to FOOD and RUNNING WATER and a GODDAMNED ABLUTION TRAP for the only time you’ll get this sweep. Hell fucking yes, you are going to live it up until they dump your concupiscent quadrant du jour in here with you.

You feel so feverish and thirsty you could drink a lake. You turn on the cold water, bend over and guzzle up water to your heart’s content then stick as much of your head as will fit under the tap and splash it all over your face. You make a quick snack out of half of the standard issue rations they left out on a table in the corner of the block and leave the rest in case your guest wants it later. After that you are inordinately pleased to apply tooth polish to your fangs.

Shivering with pleasure as you soak in the bathtub to wash off the crumbs and a sweep worth of sweat and dust, you have to take deep breaths and concentrate on counting slowly backwards to keep from touching yourself. It would only make you feel worse. Your bulges may be flexible but they don’t bend that far backward, and nobody leaves any conveniently shaped objects lying around in the block. None of this would be an issue for you if Nashok at least dialed back the stupid psionic restraints enough that you could _reach your own damned seedflap_! Yeah there’s no way in hell he would be allowed to do that.

Okay, focus. Take it easy. You want to be _nice_ to your guest, or at least make a passable attempt at a respectful black fling. You do not want to end up clumsily molesting them the instant they set foot in your block then exploding into a million pieces of frustration because you made it so horrible your partner’s bulge won’t unfurl enough to reach up and empty your miserable slurry cavity.

You step out of the tub and watch as the water swirls down the drain. Damn, there aren’t any towels. No modicum of modesty for you. You try to wring as much water as you can out of your hair and wipe as much as you can off your body with your hands. Still dripping wet, your overgrown hair flops annoyingly into your eyes. You wish you had a pair of scissors to cut it with. Too bad, no dice. All you can do now is wait.

When you return to the main concupiscent block, you are absolutely incapable of keeping still for another second. It’s time for some proper stretches. You twist your torso, swing your arms back and forth, then start rolling your shoulders and your head. Oh _fuck_ that hurts, but in a good way. You sit down with your legs slightly apart, stretch your arms out in front of you and bend forward as far as you can go. The door hisses open behind you as you are still stretching your legs, making a series of little chirr-whines that you hope will terribly scandalize Nashok as he stands guard outside the door. (Unlikely.)

Someone is unceremoniously shoved into the room. You hear your new mate grumbling curses under his breath, the threatening hiss-click of an impatient Imperial Drone, and the hollow metallic ringing of two pails being placed meaningfully onto the cold tile floor. Whoever your new mate is, he smells lovely- aroused and fearful, perhaps even a bit shocked. He must be a new recruit. You will definitely have to swing for red this time around. You seem to swing for red a lot more often than black. Even ignoring your actual pitch crush, it’s simply easier to pity a fellow helmsman.

You have long since learned that there is nothing to fear from the Imperial Drones. “Hey, don’t worry about the drones around here; even if they find an empty bucket when they come back they’d never cull a helmsman. Have a shower if you want. Grab a drink. Grab a bite to eat. We can take all the damned time we want, but we have to give them every drop of slurry we can possibly squeeze out of our globes over the next seven days. I’ve tried to get myself culled by refusing to give mixed slurry before, and believe me, you do _not_ want to go there.”

That was a memorable sweep. Nashok hooked you back into your biowires and left you to stew in your own pheromones for two entire days of your heat cycle. Knowing him, that bastard probably got off on it too. By the end of your punishment the pressure in your globes was so unbearable you couldn’t stop wailing.

“By the way, name’s Psii, or Mituna, or whatever the hell you want to call me for now. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

After one last satisfying, languid stretch, you flop onto your back with your arms resting behind your head. You tilt your head up and backward to get a good look at the troll they’ve brought in this season. Your eyebrows instantly shoot way up your forehead and disappear in your mop of hair. “ _Oh_ , I definitely would have remembered if I had seen _you_ before.”

This troll must be your descendant. He looks strikingly similar to you but with a slim build in place of your muscles, shorter hair and at least 20% sharper angles. “I’m going to hazard a guess here. Something Captor, right?”

“It’s Sollux,” he answers very quietly, lisping around his teeth. Casting nervous glances at your naked body, he retreats into the farthest corner he can reach away from you. He still has the slightest hint of adolescence about him, but he is already covered in the characteristic scabbed welts where you know there must have been biowires moments earlier. This sort of thing hasn’t deterred you in the slightest for a very long time, but it makes you sad to see in person that your descendant ended up just like you did.

You sigh. “I feel like I should be passing down mystical wisdom from the top of a mountain or some other storybook Ancestor bullshit, but you and I both know that the real reason we’re here is because the Empire wants us to mix up a batch of shiny little four horned wrigglers to enslave in a starship ten sweeps later. You know what that means. From now on we’re going to be stuck with each other every drone season for the rest of forever. You don’t have to like it, but for me this is my only break from the helmscolumn all sweep so I’ll take what I can get. I hope I can make this marginally less than terrible for you while we’re here. Just let me know when you’re ready.” _And I swear to god I will do my damndest not to jump you before then even though my globes are on fire._

You can see his throat working as he slowly nods again. “It’s cute how shy you are, by the way.” Looking flustered, he retreats quickly into the ablution block. You grin. “Cute butt too! Okay sorry I couldn’t help myself,” you call after him. The whiff of pheromones he leaves in his wake practically begs you to follow, but you’re going to wait until his think pan is on board with his shame globes before you make your move.

There are enticing splashing sounds wafting toward you from the ablution block, separated from you only by a corner wall and no door. You can’t help imagining what Sollux is up to in there. Is he bent forward at the sink with his ass pointed right toward you where you can’t see it? Is he greedily gulping down water as you did earlier, with rivulets dripping down his chin? You hear the ablution basin filling up with water, and the thought of all the places you could be soaping up is enough to make your toes curl.

You distract yourself by starting on a set of sixty crunches. Oh god you’ve really let yourself go. You’re already feeling the burn after five. By the time Sollux comes back you’ve moved on to push ups that are making your blood pusher work harder than they have any right to. “Sollux this is terrible,” you pant at him as he warily peers at you from around the corner of the ablution partition. “I’m so out of shape.”

“You don’t look out of shape to me.”

You flip onto your side and strike a ridiculous sexy pose at him with your head propped up on one fist and one knee bent upward. “There are some advantages,” you intone with dead seriousness as you flex your arm, “to magic and cheating.”

The air of mistrust dissipates instantly as Sollux executes a double facepalm and snorts. “Pfft.”

Score. You love making your matesprits laugh, even the ones that are only assigned to you for one season. “What’s wrong, are you suffering from… secondhand embarrassment?”

“Ehehe.” Knowing something about your audience is also a big plus. Judging by the sudden jump in Sollux’s pheromone levels, you think he might actually be developing a hint of a flush crush on you. Sollux takes a deep breath and looks away. “I think… you’d better pail me now. Before I second guess myself.”

You stand up and move into the middle of the concupiscent block, where there’s plenty of space. “I _like_ you, kid. I think it’s better if we start with an icebreaker first. You’re fresh out of the helmscolumn. You must be stiff as a plank dipped in starch and dried in the sun for five hours. Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t kill for a massage right about now.”

Sollux gives you a flustered nod.

“Come here and turn around.”

When he does, you begin to massage his scalp with the points of your claws. You can’t even remember when you discovered that particular sensitive spot. One of your mates tried it on you ages ago and it felt good in such a weird way, sending pleasant little shocks down your spine. It’s the perfect antidote to the hard, chafing metal of your much loathed psionic draining helmet.

Sollux subtly leans into your touch, his stress pheromone levels steadily dropping. As his body posture begins to relax, you get to work on his neck and shoulders next, rubbing slow circles into his muscles. They’re so damn tense it’s offensive. You pick up the pace and launch an attack on all the knots with all the strength in your hands. Sollux inhales sharply through his teeth and curses.

“Was that good or bad?” As soon as you try to ease up a bit he _hisses_ at you. That answers _that_ question. Your descendant is like a goddamned scratch and sniff sticker; the more you knead at him the more mating fondness he exudes.

“You know,” you purr softly into his ear, “it would be even better if I had more leverage. If you were lying face down, for instance…”

Hell yeah, _now_ he’s interested. Sollux lets you straddle him. You reward him by throwing the bulk of your upper body weight into every downward stroke. After lavishing a bit more attention on his shoulders you work your way down his back and sides. You have to tread a fine line between avoiding his biowire scars and steamrolling the living shit out of all the remaining tension. It isn’t easy, but it’s so, so worth it for the way he starts to shiver and chirp in time with your rhythm.

You grin as your hands come to a rest just above his waist. Guess what? Warm up time is officially over. Sollux gasps and arches against you as you dig your fingers into his ribs on both sides, rubbing at the vestigial stubs of his wriggler legs with your thumbs. Wow, that buzz sounded downright _filthy_. 

For a finishing touch, you drape yourself over Sollux’s back, slip your fingers underneath his psionic restraints and caress the sensitive skin at the base of all four of his horns. He arches again and trills at you, his hands tightening into fists. You remove your hands and push down on his shoulders to keep him still. When you lean in to lick at the base of his rightmost horn, you swear you can taste the electricity thrumming underneath.

All at once Sollux is grinding his ass against your bone shield with such enthusiasm that both of your bulges unsheathe in tandem and you’ve already slipped in between his thighs before your think pan manages to slam on the brakes. Oh shit, he’s not _completely_ identical to you; what if he didn’t hatch with the same mutation and you freak him out? Ugh why can’t you skip this awkwardness for once in your miserable life? This happens every damned season without fail whenever they throw you in with someone you haven’t pailed before, apparently even your descendant. He’ll understand, right? Right?

You feel stupid for producing so many stress pheromones about this. When you let Sollux pull away, you can’t even tell if it’s because you really have freaked him out or because of your hesitation until he pushes you onto your back, takes a really good look at you, smiles, then climbs onto you and entwines both of his bulges with both of yours. You throw your head back and trill.

Your think pan short circuits for a second and boy are you ever drunk on flushed pheromones when it comes back online. Feeling so warm and fuzzy it’s probably illegal, you pull him down for a sloppy abomination of a kiss that involves far too many teeth. You decide it’s probably a good idea to haul yourselves over to the concupiscent couch before you get too carried away. You give his ass a good groping, then you roll Sollux onto his back, pick him up under his legs and shoulders and carry him there, kicking one of the buckets along with you until it’s right where you’re going to need it under the hole in the couch.

Straddling Sollux, you lap at the lips of his nook with your first bulge and feel up his inner walls with your second. He snakes right into you with both bulges at once, twisting and slipping around each other as the very tips tease at the edge of your seedflap. Oh _god_ , okay he’s right you are in that much of a hurry. Draping yourself over him to get a better angle, you stop fucking around and go for the gold. _Hello, seedflap, would you like a friendly handshake? I’ll take that enthusiastic pulsing as a yes. Nice scream by the way, I bet you’re making all the crew jealous. Let’s see what happens when I fondle both of your globes at the same time._ You push in deeper past his seed flap and curl your bulges around the nice round swellings you find on either side. You _squeeze_.

Sollux screeches, bulges coiling up tightly as his entire nook clenches around you. When you feel the first hot wave of genetic material flooding from his globes into his inner slurry cavity you slide in and out of his seed flap and pry apart the walls to coax the material to drain down into the bucket. Now that he’s started to release he can’t seem to stop. He empties in fits and spurts and whenever the movement in his seed flap isn’t enough you dip in through the pooling slurry and stroke more encouragement into his globes.

His release triggers the start of your own, but Sollux hasn’t pushed up far enough past your seed flap for the frantic writhing of his bulges to give you any relief. It gets harder and harder to concentrate as your inner slurry cavity fills near to bursting and the genetic material has nowhere to go. You wail in desperation and arch against Sollux, screaming endearments and obscenities at him until he gets the hint.

“Come on, come onnnnnnn! Oh my bucket guzzling fuck go _higher_!” He darts into your seed flap and works it deliciously open. “-Oh thank FUCK oh yes oh god right there!” Tiny red and blue sparks dance in front of your eyes as a huge torrent comes loose and Sollux wrings the next burst right out of your globes after it. Wow, if it weren’t for the antipsionic restraints you could have accidentally sheared a giant hole through three solid layers of cargo deck just now.

Both of you wind down slowly while you sloppily wring each other dry. Frenetic, jerking movements dampen into tiny shudders. The stream of genetic material ebbs to a trickle, then a few drops, then nothing at all as your globes give one more tired pulse and nothing comes out. You are reduced to incoherent buzzing and Sollux isn’t faring any better. You nudge Sollux aside on the narrow concupiscent couch, throw an arm around him and nuzzle into his side. You’re still there long after the ship’s visiting imperial drone has carried away your combined slurry. Life is beautiful.


	3. Chapter 3

God damn it, you could be sleeping in for once in your miserable life but no, your stupid body is so used to the battleship’s stupid waking cycles that you’re up at the metaphorical interstellar crack of dusk as usual. If nothing else the renewed pressure in your globes is enough to prevent you from rolling over on the floor and going back to sleep. Eternally restless, you start on another set of exercises before breakfast while you wait for Sollux to wake up.

By the time he does you’re getting all kinds of fun ideas. Nashok is stuck guarding you for the second night now, his fake kismesis isn’t going to bother with him again this sweep, and his matesprit is busy with _her_ kismesis on her free period tonight. You are willing to bet Nashok is feeling pretty irritable by now.

“Hey Sollux.”

He emerges from the ablution block, still looking groggy. “Hmm?”

“I wanna pail you with my psionics.”

 _That_ got his attention. “How the fuck are you going to pull that off?”

“Ehehe just watch me. Or, if you don’t want to see me trying to seduce our guard into a pitch fling you can go hide in the ablution block and cover those young and impressionable ears of yours.”

“Did you use both of your bulges to come up with this terrible half baked plan or just one? I kindof want to watch just to see it crash and burn.”

“Hah! Half baked. Hey, if something goes wrong at least I had the chance to make a choice with real consequences for once, right?”

“Suit yourself.” Sollux settles himself comfortably against the back wall, sitting cross legged with his eyes on you. He opens up his breakfast ration and munches away like he’s watching a movie with a bag of popped grubcorn.

You grin at him. “This is gonna be fun.”

Stalking over to the door, you pound on it so hard with both fists that the metal rattles in its sliding track. “HEY NASHOK I’M HORNY, WANNA PAIL?” You push the speaker button and shout into the microphone at the top of your lungs. That ought to get his attention.

He doesn’t take the bait right away. Nashok may be built like a brick shithive but he isn’t stupid. When his disdainful growl comes at you sounding strained and annoyed from a speaker to your right, you’re actually surprised he even dignifies you with an answer without further prodding. “You are more than capable of directing your mating fondness toward your assigned partner like an obedient helmsman.”

“You’d _like_ that, wouldn’t you. I bet you’d love to see me globes deep in my descendant while we’re trilling precious pet names at each other and dribbling slurry down our legs.” That sentence was vulgar enough that you get a whiff of embarrassment out of Sollux all the way at the other end of the room. Hah, you warned him. Profanity is your native language. “You’ve been listening through the door all night, haven’t you, you sick grubfuck?”

“It was difficult to avoid. Are you aware that your drone calls are very loud and distinct?”

“Are you complaining? Because I sure haven’t seen you install another diagnostics biowire to gag me. Or are you _jealous_ , because your program can’t make me scream half as much in a century as my descendant can in one day?” This is much easier than you expected it to be. You actually hear a hint of a chirp under Nashok’s hiss. 

Pressing your face close to the microphone, you lower your voice to a honeyed purr and chirr at him through the speaker. “Here’s the deal. Dial back our psionic restraints a notch and I’ll show you the kind of sparks that don’t come from my horns.”

“I do not associate with oil-blooded mechanical filth.”

“Bullshit, I saw the way you were looking at me when you stripped off my flight suit. You totally want to fuck a spaceship, you disgusting bulgefist. Your globes must be begging for a really good juicing. Oh wait you’re on guard duty. Sucks to be you!”

Ooh now you’ve done it. Nashok comes charging in with such momentum that he already has you up against the back wall before the door has even slid all the way closed. You’ve probably pissed him off too much for him to even consider turning down the psionic restraints, but who cares, this is hot. You’ve been cackling like a fiend the entire distance it takes to cross the room. Sollux, bless his blood pusher, reaches up to give your ass a good luck grope while Nashok’s attention clearly isn’t directed at him, then he scoots well out of the way.

You like the new angle you’re seeing your mechanic from. Here in the concupiscent block Nashok looms a full head and shoulders over you. If he let you, you could almost get off on just feeling up his chiseled abs and voraciously inhaling his pitch pheromones like some kind of potent illicit drug. 

Nashok lifts you by the outer horns so he can glare directly into your face. “I’m going to show you your place, Helmsman.” 

That is an extremely distracting mix of pleasure and discomfort. You try really hard not to squirm. “Oh yes, please do,” you quip back at him. “I could really use a cadet a few centuries younger than me to check if I’ve forgotten how to navigate.”

His voice lowers by a full octave into a gravelly chirr that sends shivers down your spine. “You taunt me, Captor-” _That_ goes straight to your bone shield. He’s been spitefully avoiding your name for so long you weren’t even sure he acknowledged that you have one. “-and yet I notice that the smile has fled from your eyes. Have I perhaps… intimidated you?” Shit, he _knows_.

One moment you are transfixed by the predatory smirk spreading slowly across his face, the next Nashok pins you so hard against the wall that the force of his hips against yours supports the entire weight of your body. The rush of relief from your horns, the uncomfortable pressure of his tool belt against your stomach, and the way he grinds his still clothed bone shield into the underside of yours makes such a lethally efficient combination that he has you gasping, unsheathing and clinging to the front of his flight suit with both trapped fists within seconds.

“What’s this we have here?” You whine at the loss of contact as Nashok pulls back and sets you down onto your feet to leer down at your junk. With no trace of hesitation he threads both of your bulges through the fingers of one meaty hand and strokes them from the base to the tip. “Two pencil thin bulges. No _wonder_ you and the mutant got along so well.”

You tilt your head forward to press the sharp points of your outer horns into the soft, vulnerable flesh of Nashok’s exposed neck. “Keep his mutilated corpse out of this! For the record the Disciple was his matesprit and I was _pale_ for him you sick fuck!” Also you have to admit to yourself that the wriggler level insult to your anatomy also pissed you off far more than it should have. They are _not_ pencil thin, fuck you very much.

“Of course, how silly of me.” Brushing off your threat completely, Nashok lifts you up again by the rightmost horn- fucking ow- while he unzips the bottom of his flight suit. His hips return to crush against yours. He wedges his bare bone shield between your thighs and rubs the hard edge against the soft lips of your nook. “The mutant is completely irrelevant.”

A scathing retort burns in your throat, unspoken. All you can manage is a hiss of pleasure as Nashok begins to unsheathe directly into you. Holy _shit_. The bulge you’ve been craving for so long is exactly as thick and muscular as you expected it to be, and yet the intensity of it still takes you by surprise. He stretches you so tight there’s barely any room left to wiggle, magnifying the effect of every tiny movement. Nashok is taking his sweet time exploring your inner walls. Your nook convulses around him in waves, trying to pull him in deeper. You wrap your legs around his waist.

You go for his nook with both bulges but he blocks you, instead reaching between you to twine them around his fingers like two locks of hair. When you try to reach around, grope his ass and tease at his nook with your hands, he shoulders you roughly into the wall to free up his hands and pins your wrists above your head (gee that feels familiar). His right hand quickly returns to trapping your bulges before they can escape.

Somewhere off to your right you hear a muffled chirp from Sollux. The sound of his voice sends butterflies into your stomach and makes your nook give Nashok a squeeze. In response, Nashok licks a stripe across your seedflap with the tip of his bulge. Hnnngh. Your legs tighten around him. Both you and Nashok turn your heads to look at Sollux as he sits cross legged against the far wall palming at his bulges and trying to keep quiet.

“Ah yes, young Captor. While I may appear to be, ah, preoccupied, I have not overlooked your presence.”

Sollux startles like a deer in the headlights. “Your fight is with _me_ asshole,” you snarl, feeling a surge of protectiveness. “I swear to god if you hurt him- Ah!”

Nashok works the tip of his bulge in and out of your seedflap in quick strokes. You are weak limbed and inarticulate, barely able to parse his words over the sound of your own high pitched trills. “You’ll what? Rut against me like an ill bred mongrel?” God damn it that sounds embarrassingly accurate right now. “You know very well I would be the last troll to damage Imperial property. _This_ is what I had in mind.” He pulls back a little, and then the _rest_ of his bulge surges into you.

“Sweet mother of FUCK!” Nashok slams all the way into the upper wall of your inner slurry cavity and _doubles back_. Your globes clench so hard that your eyes roll back in your head. You can’t help screaming for him. You hear trilling from your right and you scream for Sollux too.

Your inner slurry cavity is getting uncomfortably full. “Bucket! Come on!” His bulge takes up so much room in your inner cavity that there’s barely any room for slurry until he begins to pull back. Instead of retreating to your seed flap, the tip of Nashok’s bulge curls around each of your globes in turn, petting and stroking and coaxing. You whine at Nashok questioningly and focus on his expression. He looks you dead in the eyes. The most _wicked_ grin spreads across his face.

Nashok keeps cruelly working over your globes until anguished wailing is the only sound you can make. Oh shit, oh _shit_ , you can’t take this any more, you’re full to bursting, you’re going to _die_. Tears spring to the corner of your eyes. 

“ _Now_ are you ready to be an obedient Helmsman?” Nashok purrs. His bulge pulls all the way out of you so torturously slowly that not a single drop of your slurry is spilled. He dumps you onto the ground.

“Yes! You win! White flag! I give up!” You are curled in on yourself and shaking. There is no way you can actually make it to the concupiscent platform like this, but you are far past the point of caring. “Pail me, Sollux! Oh god it hurts, hurry! Please hurry!”

Despite the fact that he smells so horribly flustered and embarrassed that it even gets through to _your_ desperately lust addled think pan, Sollux bails you out like a champion. He rolls you onto your back and has to throw all of his strength into straightening your legs out of the way. He drapes himself over your whole body, closing his lips over yours in a soothing kiss. You bury your hands in his hair and kiss him back like your life depends on it. His bulges dive right in to pry open your seedflap. You gush a sticky, disgusting puddle of slurry all over the floor and the relief of it is so deliriously overwhelming it makes you sob. The instant you’ve come to your senses enough to do so, you waste no time returning the favor. Your bulges thrash wildly in Sollux’s inner cavity until his pool of slurry mingles with yours. 

Nashok hums appreciatively, one hand working up and down his monstrous length. “I _hope_ you like what you’re seeing, nubfuck,” you purr at him through a haze of endorphins. You sure do. He has a bulge like the trunk of a small tree. His teasing was totally worth it. 10/10 would ride again.

Now that he can see that you and your descendant are finished devouring each other’s faces and the pool of yellow slurry isn’t creeping any farther toward his feet, he stops to toss a bucket at you. “Clean that up.”

“Fine. If I play Obedient Helmsman with you can I add your massive bulge to my daily maintenance routine?"

“Don’t push your luck, Captor.”

“Pretty please?”

“You heard me the first time.”

“Damn it. How about the diagnostics program at least?”

“No.”

“Aw you’re no fun.” You wriggle out from under Sollux, get up on your knees and start trying to scoop the mess into the pail with your hands. You make sure Nashok has a first rate view of your slurry covered ass. “ _Gee_ this would sure be easier if I could use my psionics, hint hint.”

Nashok’s voice sounds rather strained now. “Very well.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“But afterwards I must return to my guard duties.”

Yeah right. His self restraint up to this point has been downright insulting and you can tell he’s about to crack. There’s no way you’re going to let him walk out of here trying to force his bulge back into its sheath by sheer force of will after debauching the hell out of you.

Nashok dials back Sollux’s restraints first. You sit very still on your haunches as he approaches you next to make adjustments on all four of your horns. Now you can access a tiny trickle from the vast wellspring of your energy reserves, enough to extend your touch an arm’s length past your body with considerably less strength than you can lift with your muscles. It feels so _right_ like regaining a part of your body that you were missing. This will be more than sufficient for the ideas you had in mind.

In the split second when Nashok moves to put his screwdriver away you pull him toward you by the ass, marking both sides with hand shaped smears of yellow. Your tongue darts into his nook and you purr noisily. He chokes on air and thrusts his hips forward. Ehehe if he thought _that_ was good, wait until he finds out the first thing you’re going to use your psionics for. You withdraw your tongue and shove two electricity coated fingers into its place. While you spread your psionic touch slowly upward, you lick and suck at the thick underside of the base of his bulge. Carefully controlling your fangs and claws, you exert just enough pressure to threaten without puncturing the sensitive flesh. Nashok is much quieter than you were, gasping as he grabs on to your flashing horns for support.

You like the look on Nashok’s face. Peering up past his bulge you can see his eyelids slowly closing and his jaw falling open. Hey wait a second. There is a spark of red and blue psionics traveling along his toolbelt and it doesn’t belong to you. A pair of wire cutters comes loose and starts floating away to somewhere behind your head, light as a feather. Nashok’s key ring and his communication device follow shortly afterward. You have to bury your face in Nashok’s nook to muffle an acute giggle fit. _Sollux you evil genius! Why didn’t **I** think of that?_

Now that you’re even more determined to keep your guard distracted, you pull out all the stops. Every twist of your tongue leaves behind more tingling static. You concentrate the majority of your psionics on Nashok’s seedflap, rubbing circles counterclockwise into the bottom of the muscle and clockwise into the top. That finally wrenches a deep buzzing groan out of him. Not so high and mighty now, are we? You send sparks up farther to trace spirals around the walls of his inner cavity.

Sollux steps up behind you, quiet as a ghost. He leans in close to get a clear view of the antipsionic collars on your horns. You shiver and go very still. The thought of those wire clippers so close to the sensitive skin at the base of your horns makes you nervous. Then the first collar snaps. Holy shit, you forgot what it was like to feel so _alive_. Sollux carefully, efficiently removes the other three, and you’re humming with so much energy you’re ready to take on the entire Fleet by yourself.

“Hey Nashok, wanna know what the diagnostics program feels like?” He trills. “Something like this.” Flooding his entire nook with psionics from the outer lips to the top of the inner cavity, you zap both of his globes at the same time. “But trust me, mine is better.”

He shouts. You force his seedflap wide open and keep the current flowing while Nashok’s slurry gets all over your front, all over the bottom of his flight suit, and all over the floor. “Hah! Let’s see you explain _that_ to your superiors!” There’s plenty to go around. Shit, with that much he could have filled up an entire bucket by himself.

By the time he’s finished, your psionics are the only force left holding his body upright. You float up to face level and watch as he slowly returns to his senses. “Psst. Psiioniic Twinhorns to Engineeradicator Shieldhorn, do you copy?” Nashok looks faintly annoyed as he focuses his attention on you. You have _such_ a shit eating grin on your face. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with this picture?”

He could if your psionics weren’t actively preventing his squawk box from vibrating. The enraged, slightly panicked dawning of realization on his face is a picture you will treasure in your memory forever. You freeze all his limbs in place and float over to give him a smug and lazy hate makeout goodbye. Now the top of his flight suit is smeared with your combined slurry too. The sordid tableau is complete. In your artistic opinion the world would be a better place if laughsassins decided to paint with slurry instead of blood.

You scrape all the slurry off of Sollux, your body, your hands and the floor with your psionics and funnel it into both of the buckets in the concupiscent block. You keep Nashok from moving anywhere as you and Sollux take a quick moment to rinse off in the ablution trap before locking Nashok into the concupiscent block with his own keys. As an afterthought, you float over two strips of gaper paper to tie in pretty bows on the handles to leave a little present for the imperial drones. Too bad they won’t get the joke.

There’s nothing for it now but to go charging out into the moon base with no clothes on. Nobody’s going to question a couple of trolls flying around naked in the middle of drone season right? Not if they’re far enough away not to be able to see your biowire scars anyway… Surely you’ll figure something out.

“Hey Sollux, did you use both of your bulges to come up with this terrible half baked plan or just one?”

“Neither. I thought of it with both of _your_ bulges.”


	4. Chapter 4

It turns out the whole damned Battleship Condescension is empty. The whole crew must be too busy donating slurry to notice you. You fly out of the battleship unimpeded into the hangar of the moonbase you landed on and filch the unguarded ship Sollux was helming with laughable ease. You know it will only be a few hours before you’re both too addled with lust to fly straight so you decide to land close by on the face of the moon’s planet.

You raid the ship for supplies, deactivate its tracking signal and destroy the evidence by psionically dumping it into the bottom of a lake. Good riddance. From there you flee into a nearby forest, seeking shelter in the shade as the sun begins to rise. You should probably try to cover more ground before you stop for the day but the adrenaline is wearing off and quite frankly you’re exhausted. Curling up in the hollow of a large broad-leafed tree, you drift off to sleep in each other’s arms.

Come evening you’re still _clearly_ not going anywhere, considering that the first thing you wake up to is Sollux sprawling across your hips and grazing his teeth lightly along the underside of you jaw. Your bulges take immediate interest. “You said you wanted to pail me with your psionics,” he hisses into your ear. “I hope the offer still stands.” 

“Hell yes, that’s how I intend to spend the _entire_ rest of drone season.” You _so_ do not have enough room in here. “But first let’s take this outside before we end up having to spend it picking splinters out of each other’s biowire scars instead.”

You grin at him as you tumble out onto a soft bed of fallen leaves. Surprising him, you pin Sollux down on his back with your psionics. If he thinks that’s cheating then he’d better learn to cheat really fast. Before he can complain, you crawl up his body and work your hands and tongue over the entire length of his sharp horns without those stupid restraints getting in the way. You surround his horns with an aura of psionics concentrated enough to push through his own electric field and penetrate into the nerves beneath the bone.

Sollux unsheathes with a long trill, reaching up with both hands to cling to your waist. He channels sparks into your grub scars on either side, and suddenly you’re not sure if he’s the one pulling you down or if your knees have gone completely weak. Either way the end result is that you’re grinding against his bone shield until there are four bulges trapped between you. They coil against your abdomen and each other, leaving slippery trails of pale yellow lubricating fluid as waves of energy race from the bases to the tips.

You kiss him messily, flooding his mouth with static. Sollux psionically lifts you by the hips to free his bulges. They dart southward, and you chirp to the rhythm of their crackling slither-slide back and forth over the lips of your nook. You do the same with your bulges, because holy shit Sollux’s life will never be complete without the beautiful experience of everything tingling between his inner thighs. He slips both bulges into your nook at once and the hot electric pressure only increases.

Then several things happen in quick succession. A heavy weight settles over your back, flattening you against Sollux. Something clamps over all of your horns and your psionics short out. Sollux curls against your seed flap, freezes, then pulls away completely. You cry out in protest. Sollux tries to lift you with his psionics but he can’t; everything in direct contact with your new restraints cancels out his power. With great effort he wriggles out from underneath you and flies up out of reach into a nearby tree.

Nashok flips you over, straddles your hips and leers triumphantly at you. He just _caught you in the middle of pailing_ and there are _anti psionic collars on your horns again_. This is simultaneously the worst and the most romantic thing that could ever happen. You can’t decide what gets to you the most; the sudden stab of blind panic through your blood pusher, the outrage, the very large, very familiar bulge squirming against your nook behind a thin layer of slurry soiled flight suit fabric, the desperate arousal that Sollux has already worked up in you, or the fact that Sollux, caught between helpless concern and primal mating urges, has now resorted to jerking himself off with his psionics while watching Nashok sit on you. The overall combination is deadly. Your eyes squeeze shut, your mind goes blank, and your slurry cavity begins to fill with genetic material. You have a big problem.

“I am extremely displeased with you, Captor. I had to bash open the door of the concupiscent block and commandeer a landing craft to get here. Fortunately between the last known location of the Battleship Cursed Sun and all the noise you’ve been making, finding you did not present a challenge to me at all.” Nashok growls darkly, unmoving as you begin to squirm underneath him.

“Ooooh you are so dead. I got you to damage Imperial property _and_ steal a spaceship. I knew you could find your wild side Nashok, I’m proud of you.”

Nashok responds by shuffling backward to lean his elbow on your already uncomfortable slurry cavity. You scream in pain, still gasping for breath as he releases his weight from you. “That was low,” you growl at him, wincing. “Skip the pleasantries and give me your bulge already.”

“No.” Nashok’s eyelids lower and his grin widens. “You have to ask _nicely_.”

You clench your teeth. “Please.”

Unzipping the bottom of his flight suit, he allows you to slip both of your bulges into his nook. You slip in and out of him, prying apart his inner walls. Nashok lets out a low buzz of pleasure, leaning his face in close to yours. His bulge squirms everywhere except where you want it to go, smearing up your thighs and ass. “Do go on.”

You hiss impatiently. “ _Please_ open up my slurry cavity with your massive bulge.”

“Barely adequate, but I believe I can change that.” He finally obliges, pushing far enough into you to open your seed flap just slightly with the tip of his bulge. You go for his globes in response. His body is so much bigger than yours that you really have to stretch your bulge muscles to reach up past his seed flap and wrap around them. You chirp as you stroke and twist around him. Nashok stops moving. WHY HAS HE STOPPED MOVING? He locks his gaze on you expectantly.

You are so, so full. “Fine, _please_ ”, you whimper, burying your face in his collarbone, and when Nashok rewards you with a hard thrust the floodgates burst. All of a sudden you can’t stop begging and you can’t even bring yourself to care anymore because Nashok is lapping great waves of slurry out of you to the rhythm of your voice. “Please, _please_ , pail me, juice my globes, don’t stop, oh that feels so good, Nashok! Nashok!”

Sollux shrieks. He lights up like a firecracker, floating up slightly off the branches as he siphons slurry out of his nook.

You squeeze Nashok’s globes over and over again until he trills incoherently and his rhythm begins to falter. His slurry cavity floods so quickly you have a hard time keeping up at first. You feel so good you don’t even torture him a little, darting nimbly in and out of his seed flap to allow the material to drain. Blue mingles with yellow and soaks through the leaf litter into the dirt.

Emptying his globes takes twice as long as it does for yours. While you work his seed flap over, Nashok continues to drive into your oversensitive nook until your globes are not only empty but burning with exertion from clenching so many times. The same can be said for the muscles responsible for arching your back. You barely have the energy to feel proud of yourself when Nashok collapses bonelessly onto you like a wet noodle, purring deeply between greedy gasps of air. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

You wrap your arms around him. “Nashok, you are such a complete fuck up,” you insult him tenderly. “You let us sink an Imperial battleship in a lake and Sollux is as good as gone. There’s no way you’re going to catch him now. You’ve lost the element of surprise. I don’t want you to take me back to the Empress and get culled. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with me and Sollux?”

“You are as loathsome and detestable as you are shameless. I accept.”

“I’m going to make you _so glad_ you made that decision.”

“Hey Psii.”

“Hmm?”

“Your mechanic is really growing on me. Let’s double team him.”

Nashok’s eyes go wide and you cackle maniacally.

The very next waking cycle you have him sandwiched between you with four electrified bulges entangling in his nook. If he still thinks they’re pencil thin you haven’t heard him mention it since.

***

“…Then we hid in the swamps until we stumbled across your camp. And that’s how we escaped from Helmsman duty in the middle of drone season.”

“Oh my god Psii, did you have to tell them all the lurid details?”

“You bet your cute ass I did. If I get caught and erased from history again I want it to be _worth_ censoring.”


End file.
